molly in the west africa. the drums -- be ware of sea birds, be ware of men that steal up the river through the great forest. and into the savannah lands. the moans and groans, hundreds, thousands stolen, we rarely speak the taken, i will this time because you have asked. come back, back, back, far edge of memory. we recall them and they are black smith, by all accounts a master craftsman, worthy of praise, honored as a powerful magician. one who could speak the old names of the mother elements, earth, fire, water, wind. they would do as bidding, think. people sing praise songs. he was a gifted black smith. he is not remembered for that. he is best remembered for being a loving father. when his beloved wife died only after a year and embraced his newborn son, i will raise you myself. the elder women with argued against it saying you'll grow up wild without a gentle hand of a mother, a gentle hand to guide him. must divide by custom, take another wife or give the baby to a mother who is childless. how will you feed the baby? you have no milk to give. dinka would not change his mind.